The Devil's Opera(138)

The bell ending the second round rang. The two fighters retreated to their corners. Simon watched as Hans picked up the towel and wiped the blood from his face. He’d never seen Hans cut before. His skin crawled at the thought of it.

The third round began. Now Hans tried to take the fight to Recke. He would dance in and out, throwing mixtures of punches, trying to wear down his opponent. The problem was his punches seemed to be having no effect. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the hits made by Recke. When the big man connected, everyone could see Hans absorbing the jolt.

Fourth round—more of the same.

It was early in the fifth round when Hans finally did some damage. After several attempts at body blows, he unleashed a straight right hand that landed full on the big man’s nose. Everyone around the ring could hear the crunch of the broken cartilage. Blood began streaming from the now misshapen nostrils.

Recke wiped his hand across his mouth. When he saw the blood, he growled…or at least, that’s what it sounded like to Simon. The big man hunched his shoulders and stepped up the pace, launching a flurry of punches that had Hans back-stepping and blocking and ducking. Punches landing on his arms and shoulders had Hans twisting. But then the worst one hit; a low blow caught Hans in the groin; he dropped to the canvas, clutching himself. The crowd screamed, Simon among them, and pointed to the Hannover fighter.

Herr Pierpoint jumped in between them and ordered Recke back to his corner. For a moment, it looked to Simon as if the big man was going to throw the referee aside and finish Hans off, but he finally backed away. Pierpoint didn’t take his eyes off Recke, but backed up until he could kneel by Hans. He finally looked at Hans. “Can you continue?” Simon heard him ask.

The fighter put one fist to the ground and pushed himself up. The referee watched him stand, moving in slow motion.

Simon almost wished that Hans would give up. He couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. But he knew that Hans would continue.

Hans stood straight, shrugged his shoulders and shook his arms. He took a deep breath and nodded to Pierpoint.

The referee faced Recke. “One more low blow, one more breach of the rules of any kind, and I give the fight to Metzger.” His voice was loud and it carried well out into the crowd. He stared at Recke until the big man nodded. Just as Pierpoint was about to beckon the fighters to resume, the bell rang for the end of the round.

Simon was glad. That gave Hans more time to breathe and try to shake off the effects of the low blow. The boy’s head was spinning. He was gulping great gasps of air himself, trying to keep from spewing or passing out. Gus laid an arm around his shoulders, and he didn’t care.

The bell rang for the next round. Simon flinched in response.

Round followed round; Simon lost count. The evening became a blur. All he could see was Hans taking punch after punch, the new cuts that opened in his cheeks and forehead, the blood that ribboned down his face and dripped on his body.

Hans went down twice more. Each time it took longer to get back to his feet. And each time, as soon as he did get up Recke bored in; pitiless, relentless, ruthless. He was like a game hunter stalking a prize, taking aim with his fists, and watching as his prey weakened.

All Simon could do was watch numbly as his friend endured horrific punishment.

The end seemed near. The crowd was quiet. Simon hadn’t been able to watch during the last round, but when the bell rang at the end of it, he looked to see Hans stagger back to his corner, where he leaned against it, gasping deep breaths. All too quickly the bell rang for whatever round it was. Hans gave a weary push to straighten to his feet and go out to meet his foe.

This time Recke unleashed a blow to the side of Hans’ head. It snapped his head around and he dropped to one knee. Simon came to his feet, hand at his mouth. The crowd, which had grown quiet, burst out in fresh noise. The referee jumped between the two fighters and again sent Recke back to his corner. Once Recke moved, Pierpoint turned and began counting.

Simon looked at his friend, kneeling in the center of the ring. “Stark Hans,” slipped from his lips. He took a deep breath and shouted, “Stark Hans.” Heads turned near him. “Stark Hans,” he shouted again, Gus chiming in.

The third time he shouted other voices joined him.

The fourth time it seemed that half the crowd was shouting.

“Stark Hans! Stark Hans! Stark Hans!”

Everyone was shouting now.

“STARK HANS! STARK HANS! STARK HANS!”

Simon watched even as he shouted at the top of his lungs. Before Herr Pierpoint reached ten Hans rose to his feet. In the glare of the lights he seemed somehow to swell, to be larger than life. When the referee got out of the way, he rushed in and delivered a thunderous blow to Recke’s face, smack on top of his already smashed nose.